


Quasi una fantasia

by prescriptionshorts



Category: Columbo
Genre: Alcohol, Car Sex, Episode: s02e01 Etude in Black, Hand Jobs, Is canon-typical repression a tag?, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prescriptionshorts/pseuds/prescriptionshorts
Relationships: Lieutenant Columbo/Alex Benedict
Comments: 12
Kudos: 51





	1. Ostinato

"I know you don't agree, but at least I've convinced my superiors that Jenifer Welles was murdered, it was not a suicide. And they've officially assigned me to the case. That's my specialty, you know. Homicide."

Alex watches the detective meander out of the Bowl for as long as his blood pressure allows before stalking offstage. That Columbo has _superiors_ , that he has a _specialty_ other than driving a man, a really very reasonable, very gifted man, insane. Alex really should've gotten a good look at his badge.

"Collins!" Alex shouts to the empty security desk. "I'm taking a nap, I do _not_ want to be disturbed."

He slams the dressing room door, flinging his coat off and loosening his tie. He's just about talked himself into a corner, trapped here with himself. Might as well push the chair under the doorknob so no one else gets in. Why not stage another suicide? The prospect of someone coming to rescue Alex from himself is a little thrilling. Janice, her mother, even Paul, bursting in, bursting with worry...

Even Columbo. _Goddamn it_ , Alex thinks, yanking his tie out of his collar. Columbo might care more than any of them, owing to his strong feelings about offing oneself, but he wouldn't let up either, not after their last conversation. Which, as Alex doesn't need to be reminded, was minutes ago.

"I need a drink," he says out loud, and heads out again. The vending machine down the hall hums audibly, and Alex puts one palm flat against the glass as he waits for the coins to drop, the can to tumble from the shelf, feeling warmer every second. He's back to his dressing room before anyone can see him with the can of ginger ale pressed to his forehead. This time when he shuts the door, he wedges the chair under the doorknob.

Alex squints at his reflection as he presses the icy can to his wrists. He's flushed, but not ill: from all angles he looks desperate, dark, sick in the way that few things can help. Nobody would be sympathetic to this, to what he wants. If Columbo came in—

He reaches for the bottle and glass under the dressing room table. The combination of stale ginger ale and warm vodka does nothing—if anything, he feels hotter. Alex presses his hands to his face. He does need to rest, to close his eyes at least. He lies back on the sofa, undoing his shirt, his belt. 

If Columbo came in now—to arrest Alex, to ask more inane questions, to set a trap, to save his life—maybe he'd be struck speechless, even just for a second, by Alex in a state of undress. Long enough that Alex could pull that godawful raincoat off his shoulders, just enough to pin him and get a good look.

 _Mr. Benedict_ , Columbo's voice is low and surprised and almost as if he's in the room; Alex reaches into his pants, half-hard. 

_Is this why you've been following me?_ Alex's mouth is inches from the detective's, though he's let go of his coat. _Is this what you were after?_

The answer is a fumbling, eager kiss. Alex shoves his clothes out of the way as he moves faster.

_Don't you know, Lieutenant?_

Columbo smiles against Alex's lips as his hands wander, curious and persistent. Alex has already been so painfully aware of Columbo's presence that imagining the lieutenant pressed against him now is all too easy. Columbo's gaze, his warmth, his hands lingering much too long, oh _God_ , his hands—

_Yeah, I know._

Alex gasps and opens his eyes.


	2. Andante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falk-Cassavetes bender: good ending.

"Could you let Janice know I'll be home late? The new scores just arrived and they're a mess." Alex peers out of the phone booth he's in, nowhere near the amphitheater. "A mess," he repeats, louder. "Just tell her not to wait up." 

Alex hangs up the receiver and heads out to the bar across the street, a relic from his early days in LA: before Janice, before the Fielding money and symphony fame. Aside from the name on the awning, it hasn't changed inside or outside in years; some parts, like the low ceiling, look like they haven't been cleaned in that long. The dance floor is empty and the bar patrons are a tiny cluster of apparent regulars, middle-aged and no one he recognizes. The back door to the alley—frankly what Alex was hoping to take advantage of tonight—now bears a PERSONNEL ONLY sign. 

Alex sighs. It's a weeknight, but even so. This place used to be more interesting every night of the week. At least Alex is still interesting, although you wouldn't know it from his reception so far.

"Whiskey, not the cheap stuff." The bartender obliges without bothering to look up from his crossword.

He's been taking things for granted. Okay, an Alex Benedict is no Leonard Bernstein, but his role with the symphony does come with a troupe of adoring, mostly uncomplicated fans. Infidelity in the form of one-night stands is simpler than affairs with your ambitious colleagues, less insane than fantasizing about the homicide detective on your trail. But they all hit the same adoring, mostly uncomplicated note, and they're rarely men, whom Janice never suspects. Hence the change of pace this evening.

Except no one's so much as looked his way since he came in. Alex takes a long drink and sighs again into the empty glass. Maybe this was a mistake.

"Maestro?" a too-familiar voice calls from the door.

It was definitely a mistake.

"What a surprise," Alex says flatly, turning to face Lieutenant Columbo.

"I would've called, but I wasn't sure you'd be here."

A forced laugh. "Even if I wasn't, I bet you haven't had a night out in a while with all your sleuthing lately."

Columbo smiles, his hands clasped behind his back. "Actually, I went to a jazz club quite recently, the one where Mr. Rifkin performs." 

"On official business, I assume."

Columbo shrugs. "Well, I got there after they closed, but just in time to catch a rehearsal, and boy, I'm glad I did. Enjoyed it very much." 

Alex's shoulders are practically at his ears as he motions to the bartender for another drink, a double.

"Anyway, I'm very sorry to bother you again but I had a question, and I thought you were the best person to ask. And you know... you know, I've heard of this place," Columbo says, interrupting himself again to gawk at the bar's interior.

"Really," Alex says, dread seeping in with the whiskey.

"Some of the cops at headquarters, they mentioned that there'd been, uh, a raid, I think. Not too long ago."

Alex only nods before downing his drink.

"I didn't agree with 'em, you see, about what they said about the raid, the bar patrons. I just remembered. This is the place they were talking about." The lieutenant takes a seat next to Alex.

"You're very—" Alex taps his hand on the bar— "tolerant."

Columbo shrugs, seemingly oblivious to what Alex is suggesting (or hoping) he might be. "I suppose you could say so."

"You know, some men wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this." Alex flags the bartender for another double, and in spite of absolutely no confirmation he's been seen or heard, he gets one. 

"Like I said, Mr. Benedict, I had a question about something that's been on my mind."

"Columbo, let me ask you a question first," Alex announces, his voice a little harsher than he'd like, but screw it. "Why did you meet me here knowing what you know?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why are you here? You knew what those cops were talking about with the raid, you know what kind of place this is. You think I'm somehow tied up in a suicide that you're investigating as a murder. You upset my wife with your baseless insinuations. And you met me here."

Columbo scratches his head, playing befuddled again. "I'm sorry to be a bother, sir."

"You know why I'm here, don't you?" Alex presses. "You know what I am."

"I guess I'm just..." Columbo gestures helplessly, unable to find the right word.

"Tolerant?"

"Curious." 

Alex laughs and the lieutenant chuckles himself and leans closer, resting an elbow on the bar. "You really are something," Columbo says, studying Alex with an expression he can't quite pin down. This is either a trap or a truce. Or both. 

"Lieutenant, do you remember the other day at the garage?" Alex ventures.

"Sure I do."

"I told you I had something to confess."

"Oh, yeah, that's right." Columbo finds a loose thread to fuss with on his coat, but it doesn't disguise his interest.

"Don't get your hopes up, Columbo. I haven't committed any crime." Alex finishes his drink and fixes his sights on the bottom of the glass. "My confession then was," he says, "I find you fascinating." He glances up at Columbo. "I still do." 

Shades of curiosity, tenderness, canniness flicker in Columbo's face as Alex studies him. "Thank you," the lieutenant says at last, in a soft voice. 

Alex kisses him. Columbo is startled but returns the kiss, pressing a hand on the conductor's shoulder. Alex's pulse roars in his ears as he pulls back.

"I think you'd better get some air," Columbo says, concerned.

"I'm fine," Alex lies, reeling a little.

"You're looking kind of woozy. Uh, can I get his tab?" Columbo asks, turning to the bartender.

"Oh, Christ," Alex mutters.

"What, what is it?"

"You're gonna bundle me up in a cab and send me home."

"It's not that at all." Columbo pats Alex's shoulder. "Not at all. I think you'd feel better with some air and walkin' around." He looks at the tab with alarm. "And uh, I think you'll have to get this."

Alex pays the bartender, who's finally looking directly at him with a withering stare, and stands up, a little unsteady.

"Come on." Columbo offers Alex his arm.

* * *

They walk out together slowly and in no particular direction.

"You feelin' okay?"

"I could use some coffee."

"Yeah. Of course." Columbo points ahead. "My car's just a couple blocks up there, and there's this deli not too far from there either. Good, strong coffee, any time of day or night."

Alex nods, but doesn't look at the detective until he's in the passenger seat. Columbo looks straight ahead as he starts the car. The car—and Alex's stomach—lurch.

"You might wanna roll down your window," Columbo suggests over the roar of whatever's happening in or to the engine. "Takes both hands." He isn't wrong.

The ten blocks to the deli (Alex is counting) feel interminable. Columbo pulls to the curb and as soon as he's certain that the car has stopped shuddering and Columbo's gone, Alex slides down in his seat and exhales.

"Can I get a couple cups of coffee?" Columbo plunks down a handful of change mixed with pocket lint.

"Sure." The man behind the counter glances at the car outside. "Friend of yours?"

"You could say that, I guess." Columbo paces while he waits. It's not long. "Thanks," he says, and heads back to the car.

Columbo knocks on the half-cracked passenger side window and Alex opens his eyes. "Here you go."

Alex takes the cup in both hands, conscious of Columbo's hands lingering.

"I understand, believe me." Columbo glances back to the deli as he climbs into the driver's seat.

"What's wrong?" Alex asks, placing a hand on Columbo's thigh.

Columbo stammers. "Uh, don't take this the wrong way, but can you not do that? Here I get nervous."

"What's the right way to take it?"

Columbo sighs. "The guy at the counter asked who you were. And I don't exactly got people who'd look the other way in my line of work, if you know what I'm saying."

"Of course," Alex says. It makes sense that the person with the most perspective on the walking scandal that is Alex Benedict would want to steer clear, too.

"Take your time with the coffee. I won't move this car 'til you feel like it."

Alex raises the paper cup in a mock toast. "I feel like it."

Columbo starts the car again, and they head out. Alex takes small sips of coffee—not terrible as coffee, but a disappointing reality check. From the direction they're going, it's apparent that Columbo is driving Alex home, though not on a terribly efficient route.

"You ever been up this road before? Beautiful view for sunsets, you know, but I guess we're a little late for that."

Alex has, of course. It's on the way from the house to the Bowl if you're not in a hurry. But he'll do anything to stall, so he shakes his head.

"There's this spot just up the road. If you get there on the right day at the right time, it's gorgeous."

"Show me."

Columbo drives on, over the crest of a hill to the inside shoulder where they stop. It's dark out now, and the city lights are faint through the trees and brush. The air is bracing. The night and silence settle over them.

"If you're feeling up to it, I do have a question," the lieutenant says at last, turning to Alex.

"Of course you do." Alex closes his eyes for a moment. "Go ahead."

"It's about what you did in the bar earlier. You kissed me." 

Alex is sure he's never looked guiltier as Columbo fixes him in his gaze.

"Would you do it again?"


	3. Rubato

_Would you—_

It takes Alex a moment to absorb what Columbo's asking, and when he does, Columbo's warm smile has turned hesitant. Alex takes the detective's face in his hands and kisses him reassuringly, needily, again, brushing Columbo's hair out of his face, long...

"You are something," Columbo says again, setting his cigar on the dash.

Alex chuckles. "What?"

"When I met you that night in Miss Welles' apartment, I thought, 'That man is not the kind you see often, not in this line of work.' Oh, we get famous people, I must've told you that already. But you're something else. I just know I thought 'I can't let him get away.'"

"Jesus," Alex laughs, and kisses Columbo hard, as though he could go right through him. "I could get used to this."

"What?" Columbo asks, his mouth grazing Alex's.

"This." Alex cups Columbo's cheek, running his thumb over the stubble. "You. I must've seen you at least once every day since you started your investigation. Some days more than I've seen my wife." His fingers move to Columbo's collar, then his tie, fiddling with the knot.

"Easy." Columbo's hands work under Alex's to loosen the threadbare green silk. Once the tie is freed, Alex pulls layers of coat and shirt collars out of the way to kiss the lieutenant's neck, but stops short, the hint of bare collarbone—mundane as it is, unremarkable as it would be with anyone else—striking something in him.

The end of this encounter is likely the end of any possibility of another. One of these days, soon, Columbo will say _one more thing_ , and it will be the last thing. Alex will be left with whatever he's left with. The memory of this: night air, car, clavicle.

"You okay?" Columbo asks, searching Alex's face. 

"I'm fine," Alex says, fatalistic and flushed.

"Okay." 

Alex nestles his face under the lieutenant's jaw, not really kissing him, only hanging on. With surprising grace and one hand on Alex's ass, Columbo angles himself above Alex on the bench seat. Alex lies back, feeling almost unreal as coats fall, shirts unbutton, open palms survey skin. Something hums along under their breathing, in time with the clink of belts unbuckling, the crickets outside. Alex's fingers press at the waistband of Columbo's trousers, held together with a safety pin. He curses as the pin springs open.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that," Columbo murmurs. "Let me see your hand." Alex obliges, and Columbo gently kisses his thumb; Alex works the safety pin and zipper with his free hand and smiles as he finds what he's looking for. Columbo moans softly.

"I want you, you understand?" Alex says like someone insane. "That's what matters. Goddamn your theories about typewriters, about cars, the—oh, _goddamn it_ ," Alex breathes, as Columbo's fingers wrap around him.

Columbo's strokes are uncoordinated with Alex's, and Alex takes a moment to match his rhythm. It occurs to him that the lieutenant, _semplice_ , is moving in rough 3/4 time, as if to a half-remembered waltz—or "Chopsticks." He shuts his eyes and suppresses laughter at the absurdity: of applying a time signature to mutual masturbation; of that act taking place in this rust bucket, between Alex Benedict and the LAPD officer trying to pin him for murder; of how he can feel such desperate affection and lust at the same time, for the same needling man. 

Columbo's breathing is ragged now but he's holding back, waiting for Alex. Alex pulls him closer and thrusts into his hand, apparently the needed initiative. Columbo turns away from Alex as he climaxes. When Alex comes soon after, he still won't meet his gaze, though he manages to pass Alex a handkerchief.

"Thanks."

"I bet your wife is worried," Columbo says, reaching for his cigar before settling back in the driver's seat.

It occurs to Alex, peeved and catching his breath, to ask if Columbo even _has_ a wife, but that seems too cruel to volley at the detective. Columbo looks like he wishes he could retreat into a shell. Alex eases himself upright and begins to take stock of what's fallen to the floor. He picks up Columbo's raincoat.

"This is yours," Alex says. As he hands it to Columbo, his gaze lingers on Columbo's chest, disappearing as the detective buttons his shirt. He leans to plant a kiss on Columbo's neck, just above the collarbone, and pulls back slowly to find Columbo looking at him at last. "Sorry. I don't know why I felt I had to."

"No," Columbo says after a moment, not without fondness. "It's all right." He drapes the raincoat around his shoulders and finishes buttoning the shirt, cigar between his teeth. He's almost himself again.

Alex sighs and tucks his shirt in enough to approximate being dressed. He probably looks more rumpled than the lieutenant, at last pulled in, sprawled upon a pin. He balls up the handkerchief, careful not to wring anything out.

Columbo starts the car and looks over at Alex's hand. "I, uh. I have an ashtray somewhere around here."

Alex stuffs the cloth into an ashy-looking compartment in the dashboard and sits up straight, shoulder pressed to the window. The Peugeot swerves back into the road and climbs another hill. Not long now.

"Uh, would you mind dropping me off around the back?" Alex asks, pressing his temple.

"Sure, sure."

Alex assumes—correctly—that the lieutenant already has the back route mapped. When they pull up to the house, he has his coat and tie neatly folded on his lap. He'd feel prim if he weren't so tired. 

"Well, here we are." Columbo seems almost laconic until he recognizes the rattle of the door handle in Alex's hand. "Oh, sorry, lemme get that." He reaches over Alex and opens the passenger door with a sharp twist of the handle. "It sticks sometimes."

"Yeah." Alex climbs out and Columbo settles back in behind the wheel. The lieutenant waves.

"Good night, Maestro."

"Good night, Lieutenant," Alex replies, with a half-hearted attempt at a salute. He stands dumbly in place, unable to believe there's nothing else. Finally Columbo looks away, shifting the car out of neutral with a shudder, and the headlights blaze into the road again.

Alex goes inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Columblr is not responsible for my bad writing but it did land this horrible little conductor man in my head, so.


End file.
